


we write our own story

by professortennant



Category: New Amsterdam (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Kiss, Infidelity, Post-ep: King of Swords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-12-06 20:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18225026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: They don't talk about this thing between them, as Helen suggests. They don't know what to say. But in the cover of darkness as they work to bring the hospital's power back up, they allow themselves a single, stolen moment.





	we write our own story

"Max, we need to talk about this  _thing_  between us.”

Through the ache and fog of fatigue, Max saw the way Helen searched his face for a sign that he understood what it was she was alluding to. And he knew--had known for a while now. He felt it in the way she teased him and rolled her eyes at him, in the way it felt that she anticipated his movements and thoughts and was already pushing against him, making him want to do more and be better. 

He licked his lips, ready to agree with her, when the power dipped and then went out with a deep, resonating sound. Max let his head fall back against the elevator bay with a groan. 

“Of course,” he sighed to himself. He took a deep breath to steel himself against the draining pull of fatigue deep in his bones and began to push himself up with a groan. 

“Hey, hey,” Helen admonished him, putting her hand on his shoulder and pushing him back down lightly. “Did’t I  _just_  drag your arse through the snow?”

“I need to make sure the back-up generators are working.” 

She huffed in annoyance, worrying her lip between her teeth. “You’re going to go down to that basement no matter what I tell you, aren’t you?”

He grinned at her, the kind of lazy smile that had sent--and still sent--warmth rushing through her veins and butterflies erupting in her stomach. 

“I’m glad we’re finally on the same page.”

Shaking he head at him, she pushed herself up to his feet before reaching down and slipping her hand into his and her other hand under his armpit, pulling him up. “C’mon, lean on me, that’s it, you stupid stubborn jacka--”

“Hey, hey,” he interrupted in mock admonishment. “I  _am_  your boss, remember?”

“And  _I’m_  your doctor.”

She grabbed a flashlight with a flicker light out of the emergency kit attached to the wall and led him to the stairwell. Helen pushed the door open, bearing the brunt of his weight against her side as they stepped one step at a time down and down and down the winding staircase towards the basement where the back-up generators were located.

Helen shot him worried looks (which Max pointedly ignored) as they stopped in between floors so Max could catch his breath, back falling back against the cinderblock walls, his hands on his knees. 

“Don’t say it,” he wheezed. 

She just pursed her lips and offered him her hand. “Not a word,” she assured him. “You ready? Only a few more floors to go.”

Together, they worked their way down to the basement, pushing the heavy, creaking door open. The room was pitch black, completely encased in darkness. 

“Helen,” he wheezed and coughed. “Give me the flashlight. We just need to find the switch. It’s gotta be labeled with ‘on’ or a big red lever or something right?”

“Um, Max? Small problem.”

He turned to see her silhouetted in the doorway, the last flickering light of the flashlight going out. She ineffectually banged the edge of the tool against her palm, hoping to spark just a few more minutes of light from the ancient batteries.

“Okay,” Max said slowly, evaluating his options. “Well, when we get these lights on, please remember to remind me that we need a hospital-wide assessment of emergency supplies.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“Okay!” he said brightly, clapping his hands together in faux-enthusiasm. “How hard could it be to just, y’know,  _feel_  our way to the on-switch?”

He moved further into the pitch-black room, hands out in front of him and blindly feeling for the walls and machines around him. 

“Wait, Max, no way. If you faint in there, you could hit your head and I won’t be able to see you, never mind drag your sorry ars--”

“Ah! What did we say about language?”

“Your sorry  _arse_  back up those stairs.”

She couldn’t see him but she could  _feel_  his smile. “Then I suppose you better get in here and help me find the light.”

“Max,” she sighed, annoyance bubbling up within her. But this--this  _banter_ , this  _vibe_ \--this is what she was starting to look forward to every day. This is what she was looking for in her current relationship, the spark and tease and infuriating  _challenge_  that was missing. 

The sound of his hands clanging against metal machines and (probably) pulling out very necessary, expensive wires) had her following him through the doorway. 

And wasn’t  _that_  a metaphor she wasn’t quite ready to delve into quite yet. 

With her own hands outstretched, she hissed his name. “ _Max!_ Where the hell are you?”

“Over here.” 

She tilted her head and tried to follow his voice, her fingertips following along the edges of the wall to her left. 

It felt like a perverse game of Marco Polo, him leading and her following. And there it was again, that flare of anticipation in her gut at the darkness enshrouded them and she could do nothing--see nothing. All she could do was sense him, hear him.

“Where?”

“ _Here_.”

And then her fingertips were on something decidedly different than the cool concrete of the wall or the energy-warmed metal of the various machinery. 

Her fingers touched  _him._  She sucked in a breath as he stilled at her touch. Her finger were at his hip, she could feel, and he was facing away from her. Her other hand came up to rest in the space between his shoulder blades before stroking down and resting on his other hip. 

“Helen,” he breathed out, turning in her arms. 

She didn’t say anything, just let her hands wander over his body, eerily comforted and protected in the pitch-black darkness. She could feel his heart thudding in his chest as her palm pressed over his scrubs. 

Tentatively, in gentle exploration, his fingertips touched the hollow of her throat, eliciting a soft gasp from her. They journeyed upwards over the tendons in her throat and the cut of her jaw until his palm cupped her face and this thumb stroked softly over the curve of her cheek. 

She gripped the front of his scrubs in her hands, twisting the fabric and pulling him closer before flattening her hands against him and pushing slightly. 

“Max, we can’t,” she whispered, afraid to break the spell they had fallen under in the anonymity of the dark. “You’re married.”

He leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers and nodded so she could feel it. “I know,” he whispered right back, fingers brushing over her braids and tugging lightly, pulling her head back. 

“But I just need to know. Just this once.”

And then his lips were on hers and she knew that it would never be just once.

His lips missed most of her mouth, instead just catching the edges. But she pushed her fingers into his hair and redirected his mouth, titling and angling the kiss until his bottom lip was between hers and she was sucking softly, drawing soft sighs and deep groans from him. 

His tongue swept into her mouth, stroking over her tongue and every corner of her mouth, lighting the nerve-endings in the roof of her mouth that spread and tingled all the way down to her toes. 

She pushed herself up onto her toes and wound her arms tightly around his neck, pulling him closer. If this is all they were going to get--this one, terrible, magical moment--then she was going to take full advantage. 

“Just one time,” she panted against his mouth before claiming his lips once more. He groaned and hummed in agreement, wrapping his arms around her waist until his palms were slipping beneath her top and stroking warm, soft skin. 

She wanted to climb him, to wrap her legs around his waist and let him push her against the nearest surface and then tug at her pants and feel his mouth on every inch of her skin and--

And then the light in the room exploded, illuminating every inch of the room and dousing the growing, aching fire between them. 

Their lips parted with a soft  _pop_  and they held onto each other for a beat longer, foreheads pressed together. Her arms unwound from around his neck and she fell back down onto the flats of her feet. 

He was a little reluctant to let her go, his fingertips brushing over her sides and hips before finally pulling back and stepping away, clearing his throat.

“Well,” Max said, lips still flushed red and plump from her own mouth. “I don’t think we would have been much help in turning the lights on down here anyway.”

Blinking the haze of pleasure away, Helen turned and saw what the light had revealed. 

“The storage closet?” she said disbelieving, observing the mops and buckets and spray bottles of chemicals and spare linens. “What a cliché,” she said in self-deprecation, running a hand over her face. 

“What did we do?” she asked quietly, turning her face up to him.

He tilted his head and considered her before swallowing hard and stepping forward, placing his hand on her shoulder, his thumb brushing over her clavicle.

“We were making sure we were on the same page. Like we always do.”

“And what page are we on, Max?”

“The one that says this was a one-time thing. The one that says there’s a--I think you said a  _thing_ \--between us. And we’re acknowledging it and moving on.”

She closed her eyes against the sudden rush of hurt and despair. It was the only page they  _could_  be on, she knew. But there had been a part of her--however buried--that had wanted a different chapter, a different story for them.

“Yeah,” she agreed, softly, boxing up her feelings and stowing them deep within her where no light could touch it. “We’e on the same page.”

As they always were.


End file.
